


you're my safe place

by aziraphae



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: After the events of the show, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, The Fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aziraphae/pseuds/aziraphae
Summary: Glancing through his tinted glasses at the angel sitting across from him, Crowley felt his heart resonate with the need to pull Aziraphale closer, to let himself be known so deeply that he no longer felt afraid of his own thoughts and what they meant, to share them with the other so that they could decipher them together, picking them apart like loose threads of a shirt.





	you're my safe place

**Author's Note:**

> This piece of writing was inspired by a sudden, very intense deep dive into YouTube that provided me with a lot of emotional/inspirational music mixes, helping me finally finish a fic idea I've had for literal weeks.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, feel free to leave a comment below if you did!
> 
> (Might add a second chapter at some point.)

He'd never meant to Fall.

The memory was drenched in grief and bitterness, persistently refusing to let Crowley go, like an additional limb that was attached to his corporation and could only be removed with sheer violence and copious amounts of blood.

There was anger and heartbreak hiding somewhere inside of him, too. It was fiery and impulsive, self-destructive, and he had decided a long time ago that he wouldn't let himself be ruled by it.

So, like the sensible being that he was, he suppressed the hell out of it.

Even before Falling, he had not been a stranger to torture and rage – when Crowley had still been in Heaven, every single one of God's actions had awoken an ache in his heart that he couldn't quite explain, raising questions that They would never answer, growing stronger with time and forming lasting scars.

It had been the same game again and again. Crowley would ask numerous questions while God had created Earth, all of them something along the lines of:

_Why would you want them to suffer? They are your children, is it not your duty to protect them?_

_How can you judge them on their worthiness when you've_ built _them like this? They are your creations – shouldn't you think them perfect?_

But nothing had ever come of it.

Of course, Crowley had started doubting the righteousness of God Themself, then. How could he not have? How could anyone have decided to blindly trust an entity who praised goodness and virtue, when They had done nothing to prove Their claims?

Satan and the rest of them had been crazy, positively lost and not in their right minds, but at least they hadn't been ignorant like everyone else in Heaven. And frankly, as ashamed as he was of this so much later, Crowley had  _understood,_ had empathised with the unhinged fragility inside their heads as well as their want for a rebellion, their thirst for vengeance.

Was it really a wonder, then, that God had cast him out alongside them?

 _Yes,_  the overwhelming majority of Crowley's essence screamed, sobbed, feral with pain and fury,  _I only ever asked questions, what was so wrong about that you had to curse me for it?_

But there was also a much quieter part of the demon that occupied a small chamber inside his carefully constructed walls, eager to turn his back on God, full of sorrow that he could never put into words, yet also defiant and angry.

And though he was less angry than terribly wounded, this was the part Crowley gave a voice to when others were near enough to hear it, spitting his hatred into the air through clenched teeth and fangs, sometimes slipping in a hissing sound that made his Fall all too obvious, as if he needed to remind everyone of what he could never forget.

It was not what he truly thought of God and Heaven, only a fraction of something so personal and complex that Crowley refused to share it.

Maybe he was terrified of it, paralysed with fear at the thought of allowing someone to see all the grief and pain, all the self-hatred and rage that took up so much space in his heart, his mind, his  _everything._

Not that he would ever admit that.

And wasn't it just so much easier to shield oneself behind a convenient madness that was expected of demons?

Only with the angel did he allow himself to stop pretending, to lay down his weapons and lower his guards. There was something about him that was just too honest to question, something about the way his proximity warmed the serpent in the most pleasant ways.

From day one, Aziraphale had been different. When he had revealed to the demon that he’d given away the flaming sword, Crowley had been so thrown off balance that he had no idea how to handle it – an angel,  _a creation of God,_  had defied Them on his first day on Earth? Not only that, he’d done it to  _help_  the humans survive.

Immediately, the emptiness in his chest had started to fill out, replaced by…  _something._  At first, he had been confused, unfamiliar with whatever this sensation was supposed to be, so devoid of it in Heaven and even more so in Hell, but when the angel departed after the first rainfall had passed, Crowley realised the warmth radiating from Aziraphale had found a home in his chest now, fighting off the cold inside and around him.  

Nowadays, it was entirely obvious to Crowley what it had meant. It still took him a few centuries to actually put a word to it, however.

The angel was the only person Crowley felt comfortable around, compelling him to let his guards down and just _exist_ in a way that no one else allowed him to. Being with Aziraphale was easy,  _healing,_ like a gentle tide caressing old wounds.

Except when it wasn't.

On very rare occasions, Aziraphale asked about his Fall.

The first time, not long after they had met in Rome, their evening ended in a tragedy – Crowley had exploded into a whirl of words and body movements, voice shrill and loud in what he hoped the other would interpret as anger, while he'd also managed to gracelessly trip over his feet in his mindless drunkenness and absolute panic. That night, Crowley had felt more like a frightened animal than a demon, but his eccentrics had been enough to scare the angel off.

For a while.

Two more times followed, one during the first World War and another some years before the Armageddon that wasn't.

World War I had shocked both of them with its violence and victims, bringing them together for a night filled with bottles of alcohol and the set goal to drown their sorrows in it.

It had almost been peaceful.

At least until Aziraphale had ruined it by threading on forbidden territory again, reigniting the previous terror in Crowley and doubling its intensity, all at the same time.

“This was someone's home,” the angel had whispered, gesturing vaguely over the ruins they had found themselves in.

They had been in Liege, Belgium, the devastation of a war this big laid out right before their eyes: large portions of the city had been destroyed until only rubble and ashes remained, not even enough to resemble a shadow of what it had once been, the air thick with black smoke that made it hard to see anything that wasn’t close up, reducing their surroundings to mere silhouettes and shapes.

Crowley had nodded absent-mindedly, too scared out of his head to be really present.

Aziraphale hadn't noticed it, or simply elected to ignore it.

“Do you think they could escape?”

His question was filled with hope, like he'd really been holding on to it, wrapping his fingers so tightly around it that he'd rendered himself blind to the stench of death all around them.

Then again, it was also possible Crowley was only aware of it because of his demonic essence.

Perhaps angels were too holy for death.

Either way, though a part of him had felt full of spite and wanted Aziraphale to see that it was _his_ God who’d allowed for this to happen, his  _flawed_ and  _cruel_  God, he'd swallowed the icy retort and shrugged his shoulders.

Silence had followed for a while, so heavy that Crowley feared it might suffocate him, and he had been grateful when the angel broke the silence.

Until he'd registered the words, that was.

“I can't imagine losing Heaven like they lost their homes. I doubt I’d really be anything without it.”

“I've been doing just fine,” Crowley had heard himself grit out through his teeth, and yeah, he'd stumbled right into that one, hadn't he?

It was only when Aziraphale had turned around to look at him, expression too innocent to be natural, that he realised the other had intended for their conversation to arrive at this point all along.

“Have you, though?”

The angel’s question had been hesitant, vague, but it had been enough to ignite an inferno.

In an instant, anger had taken a hold of the demon and he’d welcomed it without a second thought – it had been a pleasant change from the grief that had kept itself wound around his entire being until now, giving way for something that Crowley found himself much more comfortable dealing with.

The sneer had placed itself onto his lips almost automatically, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp and fangs that had begun sliding out of their sheets, filled with deadly poison, but this time, Aziraphale didn't flinch away, instead vehemently meeting the demon’s eyes with patience, as though he honestly expected Crowley to open up and let him in.

“Don’t,” he’d started, voice too much of a slur to really make out anything. Crowley had considered sobering up briefly, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come, too terrified that his muted feelings would increase tenfold if he allowed the alcohol to leave his bloodstream.

Apparently, Aziraphale had understood him anyway.

“My dear, wouldn’t it be better if you just talked about–”

“ _Not another word,_ ” Crowley had bit out, sneer long gone and a cold mask in its place.

The angel had looked broken, then, more so than before, almost as if he’d intended for this to take their minds off all the mess that had been happening around them, all the mortality and suffering that neither of them could’ve prevented.

A part of him yearned to give this to him, to offer him the release and distraction he so obviously craved, but he hadn’t been ready yet, neither when it came to sharing his pain or trusting Aziraphale enough to let him in.

“We’re done here,” he’d said, all the aggressiveness gone from his voice making the words seem too soft, too gentle, and swiftly disappeared into the night before the other could even begin to think of a response.

For almost a whole century after that, the topic went unmentioned.

It had lured the demon into a false sense of security, one that he was sure to regret without ever seeing it coming.

In hindsight, it was almost laughable that it had surprised him, knowing his terrible luck.

A few years after Crowley delivered the Antichrist, they had been drinking in the bookshop for hours, up until the sun had made itself scarce and the moon showed up. That wasn’t unusual, what with it still being tradition in the present time, but what had stumbled out of Aziraphale's mouth certainly was.

“What was it like?”

Crowley had felt himself freeze at the words, freshly refilled wine glass halfway to his lips. He had tried to convince himself he’d misinterpreted the question for a second because why the  _hell_  would Aziraphale even ask him that after the last time? But when he'd reluctantly met the angel’s gaze, the naked curiosity –  _and pity,_  the demon noted resentfully – had confirmed his fears.

His instinctive reaction had been to play dumb, to keep his cards close to his chest and bite first before even contemplating to reveal them. He had tilted his head to the side inquisitively and smirked in a way that must have seemed threatening, dangerous, if the way the angel gulped nervously was anything to go by.

“What do you mean?”

There had been an involuntary edge in his voice, a barely noticeable, though  _very_  defensive growl that only a demon could have produced, but Aziraphale’s supernatural senses obviously had no trouble picking up on it.

Of course not. If the demon was anything, after all, it for sure wasn’t lucky.

For a split second, Crowley had observed a struggle in the angel's eyes, something flickering in and out that he couldn't put his finger on, and he’d felt triumphant, foolishly confident that Aziraphale had decided to do the sensible thing and drop the topic.

Turned out, he’d read the situation very wrong.

“When you Fell...,” the angel had started, only stopping to lick his lips briefly and obviously intending to continue, but Crowley had heard enough.

“Nope,” he’d snapped, placing the wine glass on the table with enough force that he had actually been mildly surprised it didn't burst.

“We're not talking about this.”

Inwardly cursing himself for the shakiness in his voice, the demon had stood and crossed the empty space between the sofa and the door hastily, ripping it open and slamming it shut behind him.

Only once Crowley had manoeuvred the Bentley far enough to be a safe distance away from the bookshop, had he allowed the bubbling breakdown to pull him under, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white while painful sobs shook his entire frame.

Now, after the Armageddon that wasn’t and all the ups and downs with an angel that was persistently blind to his love and devotion, Crowley barely even thought about his Fall.

That was a lie.

When he had entered Heaven in Aziraphale’s body, a place that he had once called his home and that he'd known so well he could have found his way around without any eyesight at all, the aching in his heart had reanimated itself, like it had been dead or dormant for years and the mere sight of bleak white walls and equally as boring floors was enough to reawaken it.

It wasn’t even that Crowley missed Heaven, if he was being honest with himself. What hurt and absolutely  _tortured_  him was all the lost potential that had been staring right back at him, the unknown life he could have had. Images of Aziraphale had been mirrored on the floor, the ceiling, everywhere he’d looked, replacing what should have been his own body staring back at him and making him feel even more out of place. Somehow, the demon wished it could have been his own eyes in the reflections instead of the angel’s blessed ones – not his snake eyes, but the ones before he had been cursed, before he had irrevocably Fallen.

The ones he could no longer remember.

And yet, even with that confused yearning in his heart, he knew he wouldn’t change a single thing.

Glancing through his tinted glasses at the angel sitting across from him, Crowley felt his heart resonate with the need to pull Aziraphale closer, to let himself be known so deeply that he no longer felt afraid of his own thoughts and what they meant, to share them with the other so that they could decipher them together, picking them apart like loose threads of a shirt.

Only through Falling had he met Aziraphale, the only person he trusted enough to offer his own life to by placing it into the angel’s soft hands, certain it would be guarded with just as much care, patience and sheer stubbornness as it required.

Needless to say, he would return the favour.

Already had, in fact.

Something quiet in him demanded his attention, whispering in such a low volume that Crowley couldn’t distinguish between meaningless sound and actual words. The demon was hammered and Aziraphale wasn’t even looking at him as he kept ranting about something that Crowley had no clue about, eyes lit up and glazed over, excited and so _very_ drunk. His heart swelled at the sight, affection warming him from within. When that same whisper tried to catch his attention again, he surrendered, shrugging and leaning back even further into the sofa of the bookshop’s backroom, closing his eyes and willing himself to go inward and chase its origin.

Memories of the Fall tugged at the edges of his mind, asking for entrance, begging him to yield to their needs, to listen to their prayers and to set them free, pulling at the strings of his heart in a way that should be painful but only felt soft, gentle, pleading. It was more persistent than the usual ache in the back of Crowley's head, the sting in his heart whenever he looked at Aziraphale's angelic glow and grieved for his own. 

Even in the safety of this room and their togetherness, Crowley was expecting the terror to set in at the vague images flashing before his eyes, to be so terrified that he turned his back on his heart again and vowed to never set foot anywhere near it, but a couple of heartbeats passed and it stayed strangely absent.

“Crowley?”

His eyes snapped back open, finding Aziraphale's without hesitation.

The other looked puzzled, curious, but despite there obviously being questions eager to topple off the tip of his tongue, the angel remained silent.

Somehow, that seemed to be the tipping point.

Maybe it was the fact that they’ve had a long week or that the events of the apocalypse that didn't happen still had some effects on Crowley, but he felt himself soften at Aziraphale's patience, at his open display of unconcealed interest coupled with the promise not to push, respectful of whatever boundaries the demon set.

Maybe it also had an awful lot to do with that voice in his heart, the begging whispers of traumatised prisoners just wanting to be set free. 

Crowley blamed the smile that stretched his lips on the alcohol, but the one mirrored on Aziraphale's he credited entirely to himself.

“Yes, angel?”

It shouldn't feel different to say a nickname he'd used for literal millennia, but this time there was a shift in the air when he said it, like they both sensed that something had changed between the last  _angel_  and this one.

Aziraphale looked uncertain all of a sudden, as if he was contemplating to just wave his hand in a dismissive gesture and to go back to monologuing, but it vanished almost instantly as he went back to his – though severely alcoholised – confident self.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Crowley replied without thinking, only just so managing to hide a blush by taking a big swig from his wine glass.

Then he decided, if he had to, he'd just blame his flushed skin on the alcohol as well.

“I don't mean to impose, my dear, but I’m still very convinced that it can only help, which is why I thought- I mean, maybe you could-” Aziraphale paused, a nervous inhale preceding the rest of his words. “Would you, perhaps, of course only if you want to, tell me about the Fall?”

Crowley was pretty sure both of them stopped breathing, the demon as soon as the first words left the other's lips and Aziraphale once he was done talking.

The silence brought heavy tension with it, but instead of greeting it with open arms like he usually would, a welcomed distraction to the vulnerable words Aziraphale kept expecting but Crowley just wouldn't give, the serpent just felt frustrated.

“Please,” the angel added, face open and inviting trust, and Crowley made a decision.

He was done fighting it. They had almost died a few days ago, not just inconveniently discorporated but _completely erased from existence,_ and Crowley was tired, so done with holding these sodden walls up that had only ever caused him more pain than release. 

It was time to surrender.

“I was too compassionate,” the demon broke the spell of silence, voice barely above a whisper, tight with emotions that he had kept buried for way too long.

Reflexively, Aziraphale closed up, his body going tense like he was expecting rejection, a learned behaviour from all his failed attempts at having this conversation.

After millennia of Crowley never surrendering and always putting up an exhausting fight, he couldn't really blame him.

Once the angel let the words sink in, his posture immediately loosened again and his eyes widened, in disbelief or shock, Crowley wasn't sure. There was also a slight twitch in the curve of his mouth, like he wanted to smile but held it back.

A brief flash of defensiveness washed over the demon, as if his heart wanted to put up one more desperate struggle before collapsing on its knees and giving in. He forced himself to ignore it, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

His body's reactions were harder to conceal, however. Crowley felt like he had ripped his own heart out of his chest and laid it out right in front of them, a desperate thing full of scars and bleeding wounds, gripping at the fingers exposing it as if it was trying to crawl its way back inside through his skin. It left him trembling, shaky breaths escaping his tired lungs, and Aziraphale watched him with soft eyes, a gentle furrow between his brows. 

When the words finally came, it was as if they just ran from him, tumbling out of Crowley's mouth in a slurred voice.

“I didn't understand why God would want to test what They had created, why it was required to put them through trial after trial, through torture and agony, just to prove a point that wasn't even worth making.” He chuckled mirthlessly at the memories, heart stinging like needles being punched through flesh, but it wasn't enough to make the words die on his tongue. “To be honest, I don't understand any more than I did before Falling. At some point, I had thought Satan would hold the answers I craved, but we all know that wasn't the case.

“When I Fell, I didn't realise what had happened. I didn't comprehend it until I felt my connection to God suddenly severed, from one second to another, just  _gone._ ”

There were tears in Crowley's eyes and a bitter smile on his lips now, hinting at the grief that was still so raw, a wound that felt as fresh as the day it had been created.

He flinched when Aziraphale’s soft hands cupped his face, gentle thumbs sliding over his skin and brushing away the tears that had fallen without his notice while the angel had moved from his armchair to join him on the sofa.

Yellow eyes locked with blue ones, holding contact and refusing to break it, and Crowley was absolutely mesmerised by the affection in the angel's gaze, the understanding for a life that he had never lived. There was sadness in the lines of his face, something with such depth that Crowley found himself wondering how often Aziraphale had thought about his Fall, but to his utmost surprise, there was also anger, a sheer thirst for blood that the demon knew so well from himself.

On the angel's face, however, he had never expected to find it.

Crowley felt his lips fall open, whether to say something or to wet them with his tongue, he couldn't remember because the next second Aziraphale's eyes  _tracked_  the movement, and the immediate flush rising to his cheeks made him dizzy and lightheaded, like he was going to pass out.

“Crowley,” the other whispered, voice rough in a way the demon had never heard it before, and that combined with Aziraphale's close proximity made an involuntary shiver run through his body.

The angel's brows drew together in confusion, calculatingly flickering over Crowley's face before something seemed to visibly click and fall into place.

Understanding dawned on Aziraphale, expression softening into one so full of affection that the demon was suddenly unsure if the other really knew who he was looking at.

Something fluttered in Crowley's chest, anxious and wild, when he realised that he might have unknowingly confessed something he was not yet ready to share, making him dizzy for an entirely different reason.

Before it could go overboard and drag him into freezing waters, however, Aziraphale moved closer, approaching until their noses were almost touching and he could feel the heat of his breath against his skin.  

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale breathed, so light that it barely sounded like words at all, but Crowley heard them and his heart started pounding like it was trying to run from him by punching its way through his ribs.

_Love?_

A hand moved from his cheek to his neck, thumb pressed against his throat while the other fingers found their way into his hair, twisting the short strands at the bottom.

“Your heart is racing, my dear.”

Had he been in his right mind, he’d probably have come up with a sarcastic reply, but Crowley's brain was positively molten and malfunctioning, so all he did was stare back with eyes that he was sure mirrored those of angels looking admiringly at God.

His angel smiled, the first carefree curve of lips Crowley had seen on Aziraphale in ages, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Because his brain lacked a filter, he told him as much.

Aziraphale laughed, sudden and filled with joy, a wonderful sound that Crowley could never get tired of.

Though the laughter faded after a while, the smile didn't, staying where, if the demon had any say in it, it belonged for the rest of eternity.

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel said, smitten and breathless. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Heart pounding in his chest, Crowley made a decision: He'd already confessed so much, he wasn't going to lie now.

The demon shook his head, a vague movement that lasted barely a second, but Aziraphale caught it and he looked stricken, and Crowley just _knew_ that he was imagining what life would be like if tonight had never happened.

“I'm sorry,” Crowley choked out, throat tight with sadness. For the first time since the angel had started this, he felt brave enough to return the touches, raising a shaking hand to cover the one resting on his cheek.

“Don't be,” replied Aziraphale, a mournful smile on his lips. “It's not like I offered you anything to make you realise your feelings weren't just one-sided.”

He didn't know where the courage came from, but when the words that left his lips registered in his mind, Crowley was certain he had been possessed for a split second.

“Why don't you do that now?”

The angel's eyes widened, glancing down at the demon's lips before darting back up, sadness completely gone and replaced with something that, Crowley realised with a start, looked a lot like  _want._

Before he could even process it, Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him.

Initially, it was barely a brush of lips against lips, feather-light and decidedly  _not enough,_  but since Crowley was known to be prone to impulsive behaviour and his brain was basically offline, he didn't even feel embarrassed when he wound his arms around the angel's neck to pull him closer and deepen the kiss.

Aziraphale groaned into his mouth, fingers pulling at the demon's hair in a way that made him shiver, and if Crowley were to die now, he'd claw his way up through the dirt and find his way back to his angel, just so he could have more of this.

After a while, his angel pulled back, laughing quietly at the whine he got out of Crowley in response when the latter tried to chase his lips and was stopped by a hand on his chest.

“It's already late and you should get some rest, love.”

Maybe his malfunctioning brain wasn't entirely Aziraphale's fault, then.

“I doubt it,” the angel muttered, pressing an affectionate kiss against his cheek when Crowley blushed at the realisation that he had said that out loud.

“Come,” Aziraphale beckoned, holding his hand out as he stood from the sofa, and the demon would be a fool to ever deny him a wish. He took his hand, slender fingers wrapping around soft ones, and allowed himself to be led to bed.

Aziraphale's bed.

In the bookshop.

Crowley must have tightened his grip around the angel's fingers, or Aziraphale had just gotten really good at reading his silences, because the other turned around and pulled him in, a soft peck to his lips aiming for reassurance.

“We'll just sleep, my dear. No need to trouble that resilient heart of yours, I just want to keep you close.”

As Aziraphale resumed moving, Crowley got stuck on the way he had  _said_  it. Like he was scared, or no, rather _terrified_ of letting the demon out of his sight.

Crowley knew the burning bookshop had branded images into his mind that he would never forget, but he hadn't been aware his angel felt the same about losing him. Though now, of course, with most of their secrets revealed, it should have been obvious.

They got into bed, miracling themselves into pyjamas before settling under the covers. First, Crowley kept to one side, not really sure what rules he should keep to, but Aziraphale huffed an impatient sigh and pulled him closer, manoeuvring the demon until he was half draped across him, with a leg thrown over the others' and his face nuzzled into his angel's neck.

Silence settled over them, comfortable and beginning to lure Crowley into a much-needed sleep, but Aziraphale's voice shook him out of it.

“Do you wish you could reverse it?”

He didn't have to clarify what was meant by  _it,_  as Crowley understood immediately.

Truth was, he didn't even need to give his answer much thought because he knew that no existence in a world without Aziraphale was worth living to him.

There was nothing in this vast world that could come close to the absolute entity that his angel was, nothing that any version of reality could offer to fill the void an Aziraphale-shaped hole in his heart would leave behind. And he was okay with that, surprisingly. In a world where he had always yearned for answers to questions that plagued his head, Crowley was absolutely fine with loving an individual enough not to question it. If said individual was Aziraphale, his angel, his best friend, his  _lover,_ then he was convinced his life was completely fulfilling, angel or demon, it didn't matter at all.

“No,” he replied and paused to think about what to say next, but a wetness against his hair made him freeze before pulling away to stare up at his angel's eyes, confused and concerned.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, tears falling from his eyes and racing over his cheeks while a small laugh escaped his throat. “You said that aloud, too.”

Did he?

“Yes, my love,” another laugh passed his angel's lips as Crowley brushed the tears away, unthinkingly following it up by pressing soft kisses against Aziraphale's cheeks, jaw and neck.

A low groan made him stop, a flush rising to his face once again as he backed off, but Aziraphale only smiled sleepily, lovingly, reaching for him to rearrange them back into the position they had previously been in.

“You know,” his angel whispered into Crowley's hair, gentle fingers stroking over the demon's back in soft touches that raised every hair on his body in response, “I'm glad you said all that, even if you didn't mean to, because I agree with you – in a life where you don't exist, I don't want to exist either. And I would run to Alpha Centauri with you before anyone ever got the chance to kill one or both of us, no matter what I said before. You have to know that I didn't mean-"

“Shhh,” Crowley interrupted, hiding the blossoming smile rather unsuccessfully against Aziraphale's skin. “I know, you don't have to explain yourself. What was can't be changed, and what is now is different. It's alright, Aziraphale.”

A pause, then another kiss pressed against his hair.

“Thank you, my love.”

Restlessness settled in Crowley's bones at the endearment, one that told him he wouldn't be able to drift off into sleep until he said what he so desired to confess, so he propped himself up on his elbows on Aziraphale's chest and stared down at his angel, thankful for the low light of the moon coming through one of the windows and illuminating the room enough to be able to make out Aziraphale's eyes.

“I love you.”

He watched the angel's lips twitch in surprise, parting in learned disbelief after both had doubted the other's feelings again and again, but it passed quickly as that gorgeous smile spread his lips instead and his blue eyes softened even more, resembling very much what a feather feels like to the touch.

“I love you, too.”

Fingers pulled him down for a kiss, one that was more than a peck this time but still refraining from being too much, and Crowley could feel Aziraphale's smile through it, pressed right against his lips and mirrored there, as though it was contagious.

When they pulled apart, they shared another look full of love, admiration and utter devotion, so soft that Crowley knew it didn't belong on a demon's face, but he had never played by the rules anyway and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

It was to soft caresses on his lower back and a steady breathing underneath him that he fell asleep, already feeling much more rested than ever before as he drifted off.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [aziraphae](http://aziraphae.tumblr.com/) on tumblr (i make edits sometimes lol)


End file.
